A Lady's Guide to Ruin (13 page)

He did so with alacrity, though it blotted out any chance of seeing her face. Or watching those lips shape words better suited for a dockside tavern than the tongue of a vicar's daughter. A wicked tongue it was. One he had not yet properly acquainted himself with. He found her hand in the dark, drew her toward him. “Why did you try to murder me with a rake?” he asked. Murmured. His pulse was pounding. There was a definite stirring in his groin. He could not explain it. Being attacked with a farming implement should have been the furthest thing from seduction.

“I saw him,” she said. She was not similarly moved, he realized. Her pulse was fast, but it was fear in her voice, not desire. His grip shifted. He held her near him, but when he cupped the side of her neck, it was protective.

“Who?” he asked.

“The man from London,” she said weakly. “The one who came to the door.”

“You've seen him before?” he asked sharply.

“From the window.”

He swore softly, eloquently. Damn Hudson. No chance of them following, indeed. “You're certain.”

He felt her nod. His hand slipped up, his thumb stroking the side of her face. “They can't hurt you. Not while I'm here,” he said. “But . . . we probably shouldn't step outside just yet.”

“No,” she agreed. “I'm afraid we'll have to hide in here a while. To be safe.” Her skin warmed under his hand. Her pulse had settled, her breathing steadied. She stepped toward him. “We aren't in bright daylight anymore,” she said. “Even country rules—”

“Your safety is paramount,” he said. His voice was hoarse. Her hand touched his chest. Crept upward, to his neck. Her fingertips brushed his throat, tracing their way to his jaw. He let out a soft growl. His fingers tightened behind her head. He pulled her toward him. She came, willingly. Eagerly. Wrapped her own fingers in his hair and drew his face down toward her.

Heat seared through him at her kiss. Her hands traced over him, as if she would see him in the dark through her touch. His own hand dropped, strayed toward the bodice of her dress. It dove mercifully lower now, baring an entrancing expanse of pale skin. He skimmed his fingers along the collar. She gasped, her lips parting a fraction from his. He dipped his hand inside and discovered with satisfaction that she was not wearing a corset. Her nipple rose to a soft nub beneath his thumb, and he felt her smile against his lips, encouraging his attentions with a soft moan. He drew down the front of her gown, revealing her small breast. Moved to put his tongue to the task of drawing the next moan from her. He drew her closer, to press against him—

She froze. “Um,” she said. “What is that?”

Something warm prodded against her belly. She cleared her throat. “Lord Fenbrook?” It came out husky with longing, with desire. She stifled it. Her breast was growing cold.

“Er,” he said. She felt him look down.

She was quite aware of the changes to a man's anatomy when he became aroused. Quite familiar with said anatomy, as far as her hands and lips and thighs went. And she was quite sure that what bumped against her belly like a rooting pig was not Martin's cock. Or at the least, she hoped not.

“I forgot that was there,” Martin said. His hands withdrew. She swiftly re-sheathed her breast and took a step back as he fumbled with a large satchel that hung by his hip. Something rustled. Then yipped. Then Martin drew a wriggling form out of the satchel and held it out to her. It pressed warmly against her, this time with a flurry of
paws and the unmistakable sweep of a small, wet nose across her bosom. She yelped and grabbed at it on instinct.

“A dog,” she said. She could hold it easily with her hands hooked behind its front legs, the rest of it hanging, wriggling, below. It was short-haired and supremely soft, and nearly as intent on getting its tongue to her breasts as Martin had been. She cradled it closer—and higher—and it made do with baptizing her neck. She ran a hand over its head. It had a delightfully broad brow and the softest velvety ears she had ever touched. “Martin, what are you doing with a dog?”

“It's for you,” he said. “I remembered that Jim Featherstock's bitch had a litter and he'd asked if I wanted one. I'm afraid most of them were spoken for, but I thought you'd like him. He seemed to suit you.”

“Oh?” Joan ran her hands over the dog's face again, earning a wet palm and a delighted whimper for her trouble. “What's his name?”

“He doesn't have one,” Martin said. “I would suggest Duke, but given that your last pet was a princess, it would be a step down for you.”

“He's not a duke,” Joan said firmly. “A cat may be a princess regardless of her circumstance, but a dog must never outrank his master.”

“I wish that I could see you,” Martin said. His voice was rough. “I wish that I could see if you're smiling.”

She pressed her forehead against the pup's. He continued his ministrations on her chin and nose, mercifully bypassing her lips. He was so very soft, and hers, truly, and Martin had brought him. Because he'd listened to her silly speech about children. Because he had wanted to see her smile.

This time, her tears were her own. Joan's tears, joining the sloppy wet of the pup's kisses on her cheeks. She buried her face in his ruff, and he gave a distressed wiggle before settling in a heap over her shoulder.

“You're crying,” Martin said, distress straining his words. “I didn't mean to make you cry.”

“I'm smiling, too,” she said, and she was. It made her cheeks ache, she was smiling so much, even with tears coursing from her eyes. Martin pulled her against him and this time he just held her, whispered things she did not hear into her hair. Held her until her tears faded and only the smile remained. And then, in the dark, with a half-asleep pup between them, they kissed again. There was no heat this time, but light instead, a light that drew both of them in perfect detail in her mind.

*   *   *

Thank God for the dog. If not for the little wretch, he'd have had her in the storage closet, propped against a crate with her skirts around her waist like a common prostitute. If she had offered a single sound of protest, he might have been able to stop himself—but she had melted into him. She craved him the way he craved her. He could tell it from every touch. In the dark, they couldn't lie to each other.

So thank God for the dog, or else damn the little pup to the innermost circle of hell. It was nestled now back in the satchel he had initially stowed it in, though that satchel was now strung over Daphne's shoulder. Its head stuck out, and it was staring up at its new mistress with unconcealed worship. No wonder, as she cooed and stroked it every few seconds on their walk back.

Their exit from the storage shed had been nerve-
wracking, as he had expected the thug to be lurking outside. Or at least a gaggle of townsfolk, in which case he would have ruined Daphne's reputation regardless of the canine intervention. Instead, the street had been empty, the thugs vanished into the ether. From there it was only a matter of leaving enough space between his exit and hers so as not to look suspicious.

As soon as she stepped into the light, she had examined the pup thoroughly and declared him devastatingly handsome. Its siblings had appeared purebred hounds but something else had clearly crept into the line along the way. It had one blue eye and one brown, a head oversized for its body, and a splotched pattern that made it look perpetually lopsided. It was the most ungainly creature Martin had ever seen, and he was impossibly pleased that he had been right in selecting it for her. Daphne would not have been happy with the perfect, pretty dogs that made up the rest of the litter.

Despite her joy, she snuck looks up and down the road at every opportunity. So did he. The London thugs had followed them here, which meant they were still intent on claiming Daphne as their wayward partner in crime. Martin would have to write to Hudson again. Maybe he could send a man to help watch the house. From a distance, so as not to alarm the ladies. And he would have to tell the others as soon as they arrived. He was glad Farleigh and the others had decided on their invasion. He did not like himself and the grooms being the only able-bodied men standing between Moses Price and Daphne.

It was with mingled regret and relief that he reentered Birch Hall. The yet-unnamed dog (on the walk they had tried and discarded Oliver, Flip, Patch, Rex, and—after a
small accident—Puddles) was set down and immediately wed himself to Daphne's heels, trotting along close enough to her that she was forced to watch her step or tread on him. He supposed he ought to apologize to the maids. There was no way the dog would be pried from Daphne's side and he was most assuredly not yet housebroken.

He forced himself to move, to stop staring after Daphne. He would see her again at supper, he reminded himself, and he had her safety to look to.

He called Croft to him, and gave the man instructions that the grooms, gardeners, and footmen were to organize themselves into shifts to watch the house. If Croft was at all alarmed at the news of criminals prowling the grounds, he did not show it. He was, after all, a product of Garland's tutelage.

When his letter to Hudson was drafted, he poured himself a finger of whiskey and sat before the fire, staring into the flames. Why was Moses Price so fixated on Daphne? The possibility that she was, in fact, his sister could be discarded out of hand. No spare Daphne Hargroves were floating around and Elinor would have sniffed out an imposter in minutes. Perhaps Moses Price did not actually believe she
was
his sister. Perhaps he was after something else, now. A greater prize. But Daphne had no wealth. Nor, despite Martin's appreciation of her every lash and freckle, was she the sort of beauty to inspire obsession from afar.

Maybe madness ran in the family. Then again, Hudson had said he did not believe Joan Price to be mad at all.

He downed the whiskey in one gulp. He would end up in Bedlam himself, spinning over all of this again and again. Price's motives didn't matter. Only his presence did. The sooner he was dealt with, the better.

*   *   *

The pup (whom, Joan and Elinor had decided, was neither a Spot, a Brutus, nor a Dash), being denied the warmth of Joan's lap, curled himself over her feet at supper the following night. It was a quiet affair, strung through with a nervous wariness that Elinor's attempts at cheer could not cut. Moses was here. Joan felt besieged. So did Martin, from the way he stabbed at his meat.

“Did you see Daphne's new handkerchiefs?” Elinor said, clearly growing desperate. “I think they're quite fetching.”

“Hrm,” Martin said, which had been his response to most things. Martin had asked her not to tell Elinor about Moses. She had disobeyed the moment Mrs. Wynn nodded off, but Elinor was making a good show of not being concerned. Joan only wished Martin could manage the same. It gave her a knot in her stomach, watching him chew over his worries and hardly touch his food.

“How was the village yesterday?” Elinor asked.

“Can you not abide silence for even one meal?” Martin grumbled. They both stared at him. He cleared his throat. “My apologies,” he said.

“You should not worry yourself so much,” Joan said, staring down into the little saucer of ice offered between courses. “It makes your forehead all crinkly.” She carefully took up a spoonful.

“Crinkly,” Martin repeated.

Elinor squinted at him. “I fear it's becoming permanent,” she said.

He touched his brow, then frowned. “I do not like it when you gang up against me,” he said.

“It is not a gang,” Elinor said loftily. “It is a strategic alliance.”

“Far more civilized,” Joan agreed.

“I think you would be quite suited to a gang,” Martin said to her. She allowed a smile enough leash to tick up the corner of her mouth, amused at just how wrong he was. She'd had a hard enough time managing just Hugh and Moses. Any more and she might have checked herself into Bedlam willingly. His own smile was warm in response.

“What a terrible thing to say,” Mrs. Wynn piped up. They all swiveled toward her, having forgotten she was present. She popped a bite of ice into her mouth and lapsed back into silence.

“My apologies,” Martin said smoothly. Anything further he might have said was interrupted by a commotion out front—the sound of baying dogs, clattering carriage wheels, and the high whinny of an over-excited horse.

The pup of no name bolted upright and joined his warbling voice to the throng.

“What the devil . . . ?” Martin said, and quickly passed off another apology to Mrs. Wynn. The three younger diners were on their feet. The pup began a mad circuit of their legs, and it was only by a small miracle that Joan scooped him into her arms before he managed to topple anyone.

Croft appeared in the dining room, looking perplexed. “Your guests have arrived,” he said, in the same tone of voice usually reserved for
Napoleon is advancing
.

“
Now
?”

Joan decided that Martin should never command troops. The bare panic in his voice would have inspired record desertions among the infantry.

“We shall have to go greet them,” Elinor said cheerily,
and strode forth. All she was missing was a saber to point. The pup wriggled and howled his assent, and Joan and Martin trailed out after Elinor. Martin gave her a rueful look.

“They are a handful,” he said. “A veritable flood of enthusiasm. Stick close to Elinor, or you may be swept away.”

“I intend to,” Joan said grimly. Her two days of preparation had evaporated. She hoped Martin's friends were more like him, and less like Elinor, or she would be in a great deal of trouble very shortly.

No fewer than four carriages had pulled up in front of the house. From the first had spilled a trio of men, the eldest perhaps a few years older than Martin and the youngest in his midtwenties. The second carriage offered up two young women, clearly sisters, with identical wheat-blond hair and heart-shaped faces. One held the lead of a slender, morose-looking brindle hound; another two of the same breed were roughly acquainting themselves with the local pack, with much sniffing, nipping, and toppling over ensuing. The third and fourth carriages contained baggage, servants, more baggage, and a stately older woman. The last looked at the younger of the ladies with the keen and wary eye of a constable observing a known pickpocket. Chaperone, Joan guessed. And young Lady Phoebe was a handful.

“Martin!” The eldest of the men, a lanky and sandy-haired man whose clothes showed not one sign of rumple after what must have been a long carriage ride, strode forward. He swept Martin up into a bone-crushing embrace, swept a bow over Elinor's hand, kissing her fingertips, and then turned sharply to face Joan. She blinked at him, coiled and ready to flee. But he only made an
ahem
in the back of his throat and looked sidelong at Martin.

Martin started. “Lord Farleigh, allow me to introduce
my cousin, Miss Daphne Hargrove. Miss Hargrove, Lord Farleigh.”

At this, said lord took her hand and bestowed the lightest kiss just above her knuckles. The bow and the kiss were more than ought to have been afforded her. Much to her horror, she felt a blush creep its way from her bosom to her hairline. “Lord Farleigh,” she murmured. “A pleasure.”

Behind his friend, Martin rolled his eyes. The others, who had begun to cluster forward, had similar expressions. The remaining introductions and greetings were brutally swift in the moments that followed. Phoebe was indeed the younger girl with the hound, and Kitty her sister. Kitty had soft, shy eyes that flicked to the ground any time she was not strictly required by propriety to lift them. Phoebe made up for her, seizing Elinor about the shoulders and casting a positively wicked wink in Martin's direction. If he had done anything but give her a wry smile, Joan might have hauled off and struck her.